Referenced Artistic Profound Plain Title
Connection.
That must be
The point of all
This structured nonsense1.
1 Symmetry sought systematically by severely sensitive supplicants
2 My pen’s point inking the inevitable folly
3 Capable expression enough to put one in correctional facilities
4 Err, time.
5 Paramour.
To connect with
The viewers
The Goal2.
No.
Then again, maybe expression is the key.
Expression by clipping, counting; controlling.
Control is the art, expression in selection.
Thesaurus doors open to expressing artistic control3.
No.
Proving said point then.
I swear I can rhyme, I do it all the thyme4.
Just pick up a pen.
Scribble on the paper, ultimate word shaper.
Race at Watkins Glen.
I threw in my name, is this artist’s fame?
Vague, unnecessary reference to faux, unintelligent arrogance.
*Omit last three lines, do nothing for piece*
No.
Perhaps the profundity of these utterances lies in ode;
To thee, my darling wavelength light line lover!
To thee, my gorgeous angiosperm resultant!
To thee, my flushed fabulous faramour!5
To thee lovey, to thee sweet honey!
To thee! To thee! To thee!
No.
A search in the furthest reaches of imagination renders one
Impotent, Couched, Searching another’s mind for answers:6
6 Mindful thoughts considered conclusive
7 A better way to put it would be ( )
8 The prosem was once considered the pinnacle of artistic achievement until Joseph McCarthy rolled into
the artist’s studio, which happened to be his room, which happened to be in his parents house, who
happened to be strong, upstanding citizens, who happened to hate commies and “You can keep your
socialist change, salesman, good day.” They treated Senator Joe to black coffee and mini apple pies while
he whipped the help into witch-hunt frenzy, capturing the artist and deleting his name from reality.
McCarthy also personally helped the parents- who had by this time disowned the artist, who emphatically
hadn’t “raised us no got-damn queer,” who were glad the government they’d voted for had taken action-
the Senator helped them burn every picture and written work of their one-time progeny. And so all progress
on the innovative prosem was supposedly lost for good and forever, and just as well, said Big Joe, because
he was all out of lighter fluid and “Might I trouble you for another pie, Mrs. ( )?” and she fed it to him
piece by crumbling piece with her good silver and adoring eyes as Mr. ( ) chuckled into his newspaper.
The star arising each cycle to existence still clinging,
Granting to all and around the greatest gift to date;
Her shadow surrounding me as combinations click closer to perfection,
The great heist of the vault an assault against judgment.7
*Too specific, change last two lines, could see a picture, don’t do that*
No.
Simple prose, possibly; an experiment in cross-genre contamination, though bound to get
the conservatives up in arms about the purity of form. It cain’t be prose if it be poem, and
it can’t be poetic if written in prose. I submit for your inspection the “prosem”8:
…………
………………
I lost my nerve; was threatened I would never write in this town again; was told there is
no great American melting pot of the stylistic canon; was asked to please leave tradition
well enough alone; if he were married he wouldn’t dare; yes, but what of the children;
forget about it-
*Omit personal statements, try again, you can’t show this to anyone, you*
No.
I wholly refuse
To compose for anyone
A fucking hai-
No.
So, what of all this? Do we treat every day as Christmas in the Trenches? Do we treat
every day as Everyday?
Can we agree to disagree about agreeing in the first place?
No.
*Theme unclear, spacing off, message convoluted, title needs work, footnotes?!
*Suggestion: start over or quit
*Your friend,
*Quincy*